Dream Weaver 2.4

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My friend Fran told me about a dream she had.

“My son and I were walking through an unfamiliar neighborhood and the sky was orange. There was a mob of people walking behind us. I kept telling my son to try to hide. I pulled him down into the bushes and we held our breath as we watched the others turn orange.

We made it into an abandoned house and then I had to go to the bathroom so I woke up. This doesn’t seem like much but it felt like it went on forever.”


I feel this way a lot. Life today feels like a zombie movie. I try not to feel this way, because I never want to think I know anything, and to feel this consummation of my will, of who I am, of who we are, to be aware of what’s at its root, implies a kind of knowledge. I’m just guessing. I’m just guessing that this is all a MacGuffin. Because it makes me too sad to think that this is all there is.

It feels like most people have gotten less intelligent since I’ve been around. Maybe that’s because I’ve slowed down my drug intake. It’s also hard not to feel things are getting better overall. But really, how the fuck would I know? I’ve always had it easy. My problems have always been of my own creation.

Money somewhere is orange. I’m pretty sure of that. When I was a kid I had money from all over the world and some of it was orange. That’s what your dream is about. I’m sure of it. I’m sure that what we understand as humanity will drown in an ocean of orange money and green hate and garbage that no one needs but everybody buys.

I hate money. This is putting it lightly. When people talk money I walk. I never look back. Money is blood. Stolen blood.

Last week I was crying in the shower and thinking about Jim Kramer. Talking about the stock market is like masturbating onto a pile of murdered children. Cut it the fuck out.

People who spend all day talking about money are not people who spent a lot of time alone on good drugs or in prayer. There are always exceptions to the rulez.

There are more people alive today that have tripped face than there were before. I feel like this is a good thing. I feel like intelligence is overrated, like direct knowledge of a connection to a source of love, this might be more important.

Maybe it’s been too important to me. I feel that I experience loss on a daily basis, not the least of this loss is that which I’ve sacrificed for gnosis. To know shit. I don’t know shit, but I feel love for every single living thing in the world. I don’t care what that makes me sound like. It’s all I’ve got to give.


About Adam Tedesco

Adam Tedesco is a founding editor of REALITY BEACH, a journal of new poetics. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Laurel Review, Gramma Weekly, Prelude, Pouch Powderkeg, Fanzine, Fence, and elsewhere. He is the author of several chapbooks, most recently HEART SUTRA, and ABLAZA (Lithic Press), and the forthcoming collection Mary Oliver (Lithic Press, 2019). View all posts by Adam Tedesco

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